Ten to Eleven.
Eleven to Twelve.
Twelve to just One.
He closes his eyes and hopes for a masterpiece
yet only he understands the pain of the pen.
Those late nights under the light of the lamp fire
nocturnal writing like a literary vampire
The cramp in his hand is definitely a price worth paying.
he writes what he dreamingly sees but is seemingly free
from the outside world.
But what he does write will remain on a page
longer than he will remain on this planet.
A perpetual shell with remnants
That will forever be his companion.
The page is our best friend.